53: SPEED TRAINING

(Kihrin’s story)

I returned to training with Doc. Seasons followed each other in quick succession while I lived and died a thousand times in illusions crafted by Chainbreaker. All the while I tried and failed to find a way past the Old Man. I understood now that he didn’t have to kill me, but offered a threat worse than death. No matter how much progress I made under Doc’s tutelage, no sword would free me from the dragon.^*

“If only I was better at magic,” I whined to Tyentso one day as we both ate lunch. I rarely saw her outside of meals anymore: my lessons with her had faded even as Doc’s had increased. “I have no damn talent at all.”

Tyentso snorted. “If that were true, you’d never have seen past the First Veil, Scamp. Most poor fools never do.”

A year on Ynisthana had been kind to Tyentso. Her skin had lost the leathery texture it possessed from years at sea. Her hair, no longer cracked and dry from the salt spray, hung lustrous and shiny. She’d put on weight from an island routine that encouraged her to eat regular meals, and muscle from the heavy exercise. Her face had a blush of color that had been missing when she served on The Misery.

True, her nose was still sharp enough to cut a man and her chin was a spear point, but the creases on her forehead were mostly gone. I think no one had been as surprised by the transformation as Tyentso herself. She was bemused to find her company sought out by members of the Brotherhood for something other than study.

“I know one spell. One! And it doesn’t work on the Old Man. I’ve tried. He can still see me.”

Tyentso swirled her spoon in her bowl, frowning. “Magic isn’t just a matter of memorization, Scamp. You have to change how you see, change how you think. You are forcing your will on the universe. Not one in a thousand people can cast the simplest spell.” She let her spoon fall into the bowl. “Anyway, dragons aren’t creatures who know magic, they are magic. Worse, they are magical chaos vortexes. It would be difficult to use magic to fool one.”

“Doc did it.”

“Doc is using an artifact. Yours would work on him too, you just wouldn’t like the result.”

“If you’re trying to cheer me up, Ty, you’re doing a lousy job of it.” I pushed my bowl away. “How did you learn? Did it take you years of staring at a candle or trying to make a leaf move?”

To my surprise, Tyentso blanched, took a deep breath, and looked away. “No.”

“Well? What then?”

She stood up. “It wouldn’t work for you, Scamp. I don’t recommend it.”

I cocked my head in surprise. In all the time I’d known Tyentso, she’d never dismissed a question with no explanation. She never shut me down without an involved lecture on why I was being stupid.

I grabbed the edge of her chemise. “Ty, what did I say?”

She snatched the fabric away from me and opened her mouth to snap a reply. She closed it again. “Leave it be,” she said, her voice sounding tired.

Tyentso picked up her dish and carried it to the kitchen for cleaning.

A week later, Tyentso showed up at my room after dark. It wasn’t like that. In point of fact, I had a vané woman named Lonorin with me, whom Tyentso shoved out with a firm and impolite hand.

“So, you decided you like those pretty vané flowers sprinkled on your bed after all, have you?”

I sighed and threw a bedspread around me. “I thought we’d established I’m not your type, Tyentso.”

“Not only are you not my type but you’re young enough to be my son, which is a terrifying prospect. These vané immortals may not have any standards, but I sure as hell do.” Tyentso lifted a basket covered with a black cloth. “Anyway, I brought tea. I promise it’s not drugged.”

“If you wanted to kill me, you had plenty more opportunities before this.” I motioned her over to the small reed table and chairs beside the mattress. “To what do I owe the visit then? It’s a little late and I’m a little naked.”

“I know a way to break past your magical block.”

I tilted my head. “Okay . . . I’m listening.”

She pulled the teapot and several cups out of the basket. “The problem is that it’s dangerous. Not to mention gods-awful unpleasant. And I wouldn’t have offered at all, but . . .” She winced as she poured the tea. “I won’t lie, Scamp, I feel bad about your gaesh.”

I chuckled and reached for the tea. “You must have gaeshed a thousand people in your life, Ty.”

“But I didn’t know it couldn’t be reversed. And I sure as hell didn’t know that when you finally die and travel past the Second Veil, the gaesh will pull you toward Hell.”

I froze, felt a shudder run over my body. “What?”

She scowled. “When you finally die, you’re not going to the Land of Peace. No one who’s gaeshed does, apparently. I finally understand what the demons get out of it and why they ever agreed to allow us to summon them.”

I stared at her until her cheeks turned red, she cursed, and turned away. “Damn it all, I didn’t know! I knew damage to the upper soul could interfere with passage to Thaena’s realm, but I didn’t think a gaesh caused that kind of harm. You think the demons stop to give mortals a full lecture on what happens to the souls of those they gaesh for us? That every soul taken is a chance for them to add to their power? Not a chance. I found out here—it’s not taught at the Academy.”^*

I fought to swallow back my nausea. I hadn’t put the pieces together, hadn’t realized what a gaesh could mean. This would make it easier for Xaltorath to claim me, later. Not even death would free me. I felt the same sense of claustrophobia, the same itchy, ugly feeling of being cornered and caged, that I’d felt when the Old Man had shown me the poor souls kept in his “garden.”

“So . . .” I drained my cup of tea, set it back down in front of Tyentso. “Why do you think you can teach me magic now, when you haven’t been able to before this?”

She examined her fingers for several long, tense seconds before she looked up. “The dirtiest, nastiest part about learning sorcery is that words aren’t enough. Learning to cast a spell isn’t a matter of memorizing charts, reciting formula, or drawing little glyphs on the floor. Magic is about teaching someone the right way to think. No language, not even the old voras tongues, can describe the precise patterns of thought, the mappings of consciousness, necessary to cast the simplest spell.”

I swallowed and leaned back. “Okay. So . . . I’m back to my original question. How are you going to teach me?”

Tyentso’s eyes brightened as she lifted her chin. “By making you learn the same way I did: mind to mind. You’re going to have a ghost possess you, and then I will—”

“Hold on there.” I straightened. “I’m going to what?”

Tyentso cleared her throat. “A ghost. A ghost will possess you, and while doing so, the two of you will be in close mental contact. It should be enough so you can intuitively grasp the spellcasting process. It worked for me. I see no reason why it wouldn’t work for you.”

I swallowed hard. “Let me get this straight. You want me to let a ghost take possession of my body and teach me magic. Assuming that would even work, and assuming I’m crazy enough and desperate enough to agree, where are we going to find a ghost sorcerer?”

Tyentso raised her hand. “Me. I’m going to be the ghost.”